Drabbles
by Queen of War
Summary: Short glimpses at the characters. All genres. Will be updated as the muse strikes. Chapter 7!
1. Chapter 1

_Brotherly_

Juan genuinely loves his little brother. Goffre is fun, sweet, nice. He looks up to Juan with eyes filled with admiration and affection. To the youngest Borgia, Juan is worth something. He's a fount of knowledge and the epitome of all things fantastic.

Those are high expectations and Juan would rather throw himself in the Tiber than disappoint Goffre. Being the older brother makes him the automatic protector of the younger. That makes him feel good, like a hero in one of the old fables Lucrezia's always reading.

He wonders if Cesare ever felt like that towards him.

_Manipulative_

"Like a masterless dog." Those words, coupled with a forlorn look, seal the deal. The Pope's handsome son not only wants the servant who can kill without blinking, he wants to take in the lost puppy. A dog is a man's best friend, or so the saying goes. Cesare Borgia needs someone to trust and Micheletto is willing to be that person.

Some days it's just too easy.

_Hate_

Cesare makes himself not hate Giovanni Sforza. Sure, the man's married his baby sister, but he doesn't look thrilled at the prospect of marital bliss with a fourteen year old and she spends her wedding night alone. It's a marriage of convenience, and as long as he doesn't hurt the little blond angel, Cesare will forgive him the sin of marrying Lucrezia.

Then she visits and the sad look in her eyes reminds him of promises of hearts and dinner knives.

_Body_

"The source of this disquiet." His hands run up her leg, tickling her thigh and his fingers…dear God! Guilia lies back in bed and her eyes go wide, her mouth opens to release a moan.

Then the Pope's tongue flicks against her stomach and she can't stay still any longer. His hair brushes against her skin and he crawls up her body, hands pawing her breasts and teeth nibbling her neck. She pulls him up until they meet and he enters her slowly, to draw out the pleasure.

She makes a mental note to ask for future geography lessons.

_Books_

Dr. Burchard likes books. Books don't pester him to swear loyalty to their pages, then leave him to face the competing parchment who want to kill him with papercuts. Books are safe. Books are all he needs.

He wishes other people appreciated books more. If Juan Borgia read a book, the world might be a safer place. If the Holy Father read, the world might be more aligned with God's will. If Cesare Borgia read, the world might…actually, that one's clever enough. He doesn't need to read any more.

But if all these people picked up a book and read it, they might leave Dr. Burchard alone. And that would fine and dandy with him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Trust_

They trust one another. They fight together, exchanging tips on the sword thrust, on the proper way to twist the wrist and capture an opponent. They describe battles. They laugh. They leer at women. They wrestle, like puppies romping in the grass before collapsing and staring up at the blue sky and the fluffy clouds.

If anyone asked him, Djem would say he trusts Juan Borgia with his life.

But nobody asks. Maybe because they know better than he does.

_Kinky_

"Lift your shirt," Cardinal Borgia said.

Paulo flinched. "It's…I'd rather not. Your Eminence." He tacked on the last part hastily.

"It was an order, not a request." The Cardinal snapped his fingers and the redhead beside him, who Paulo was beginning to think is something other than a manservant, roughly turned the stable hand around and yanked the shirt up. He felt the cool air against his abused skin and shivered.

The redhead's fingers traced a scar from shoulder blade to the small of Paulo's back. "One tail. Long. The one who did this has had practice."

"He's had lots of practice," Paulo said bitterly. "I hope he burns in hell."

"I hope I meet him," the redhead said.

_Hate_

Vanozza does not hate Giulia Farnese. She doesn't like the other woman, but she is smart enough to realize the blame rests with the man they both love. Women are not quite helpless when it comes to the whims of men, but men rule. Men have power and wealth and offices. What woman can stand against all that and say, 'no'?

Sometimes she thinks that if she were the man and Rodrigo the woman, she would not treat him as he has abused her.

Other times she knows better.

Author's note- sorry it's short. School is taking a lot out of me. I can haz reviews?


	3. Chapter 3

_Candy_

There's a snap as the bones are forced back into place. Her husband tilts his head back, grits his teeth, and lets out a growl of pain. It hurts, as all in the kitchen can hear.

Lucrezia stays at such an angle that he can't see her upturned lips, the smile that would give away her joy at his suffering. It feels good to watch his chest heave, to listen to him snarl, to feel his hand grip hers tightly so he won't embarrass himself by screaming. Revenge is like candy and she's discovered a sweet tooth.

_Sugar_

"So you wouldn't recommend using cantarella then?"

"Not with sugar, my friend."

There's something sinister about those last two words. He's not very old and he hasn't been working for Juan Borgia very long, but he's smart enough to realize they employ people far more dangerous than himself.

Maybe he can get away with only a beating. Maybe he'll get another chance. Maybe…

He feels strong arms close around his neck and his air supply is cut off. His vision goes blurry and the last thing he thinks is, 'not with sugar.'

_Sweet_

Sancia likes her husband. He's too young for her to love, but she appreciates his sweetness and the fact that he is different from the rest of a cruel world. He shares with her the stories he acts out with his sister's dolls, and whispers secret dreams of growing up to be a soldier like his amazing big brother. He seems to see her as a surrogate big sister and while he couldn't replace the manic bundle of personality that is Alfonso, she comes to see him as the little brother she never had.

It's almost enough to make her forget the one night they spent as boy and wife.

_Salt_

Francesca gently dabs the sponge against Lady Sforza's skin, noticing the winces and grimaces. Lord Sforza knows exactly what he's doing when he beats; he knows how to hurt without incapacitating. She's felt his fists often enough to know.

The water flows over the other girl's body washing away some of the grime of sex and soothing the skin and muscles.

Drops of salt water mix with the fresh and Francesca says nothing. What can she say?

_Some days_

They're not the type of men who throw away a good opportunity. The French soldiers request a demonstration and Cesare and Micheletto are happy to oblige. But once the corpses stop moving, Cesare can't help but ask, "Seriously?"

"Your Eminence, we need to go." Ever the professional, Micheletto's ready to run.

Cesare stands there staring at the bodies. "I mean, they practically asked us to kill them."

"Well…"

"How idiotic do you have to be to ask an assassin to show you how he uses his favorite weapon?"

"Pretty idiotic." Micheletto grabs their weapons. "Some days you are the angel of death come to implement God's vengeance. Other days…" He gestures to the bodies. "Other days you rid the world of stupid."

Author's notes- It bugs me how important Lucrezia's marriage troubles were to the plot while Goffre's got glossed over. It's just as squicky when little boys are forced to have sex, as it is when girls are.

On a lighter note, lol silly French soldiers.


	4. Chapter 4

_Positive feedback_

Micheletto has an interesting relationship with pain. Physical pain is sought out. Emotional pain is ignored. If you ignore feelings then you can pretend they don't hurt. Logic, right? But the downside to that is, if you shy away from the pain that comes with connecting with your fellow humans, you give up the chance at emotional pleasure.

"Trust has to be earned."

"Perhaps it already has been."

The fingers rub his neck and their foreheads touch, but what's really important are the positive words. For the first time in years, Micheletto's hearing that he's done a good job. Nobody tells assassins 'good job' or 'thanks.' They give them coins and send them away.

But Cesare Borgia tells him he's trusted and the emotional pleasure that comes from working for the Pope's son is worth more than all the physical pain in the world.

_Fear_

Juan is terrified of failure. He talks himself up and convinces others that he's confident. But he knows he's only a mediocre swordsman and a feeble excuse for a general, especially compared to his brother. But he doesn't know how to improve himself, hard work being a concept more foreign than the French. So he ignores the fear and his responsibilities and focuses on pretty women.

It's a way to save face. If he tries and fails, that's humiliating. If he doesn't try then he can say failure didn't come from incompetence, but from laziness.

_Common ground_

What is Rome without a good plot? Except this time the plot is to kill Lucrezia. Take out the most eligible Borgia child and remove the family's main bargaining chip. On Cesare's orders, Micheletto sits outside her bedroom with a sword and three knives (two in his boots and one tucked in his belt) to make sure that doesn't happen.

She comes out and sits beside him. "I don't want to be alone. When is Cesare coming back?"

"When he's killed the men who would harm you, My Lady." He doesn't quite know what to think of her. She's soft looking, and delicate. Those aren't words he uses often and he has to search his memory for what they mean.

"And you'll be here until he comes back?" She doesn't know quite what to think of him. He's grimy and looks like he could use a bath. She's used to men flirting with her and asking for favors. This man does neither.

"I will, My Lady. Until His Eminence returns."

"Why?"

"Because he told me to."

She nodded. "That's the only reason I do anything anymore either."

_Annoyed_

Micheletto is annoyed. This isn't a wild development; he's human and humans have emotions. But this time is unique; the emotion is actually peeking through his facade of non-feeling.

Cesare thinks that if anybody has any reason to be annoyed it's him. "If it would be stupid for me to kill the servant I have need off, wouldn't it be even more stupid for that same servant to get himself killed?"

"There was never any danger of that. Your Eminence."

Cesare pauses the bandaging to dig his thumb into the bloody wound that decorates Micheletto's arm, both to point out that, apparently, there was danger, and that he is in charge. The 'Your Eminence' was tacked on too late for his liking. "Seven against one is dangerous."

"Eight."

"Eight?"

"When I fought his bodyguards he found a sword and joined in." The statement is so matter-of-fact that for a second Cesare can only stare. How often does a man hear, 'Oh yeah, I fought eight people. Killed five of them before I had to retreat.'?

He yanks the bandage into a knot. "New rule. If there're more than four bodyguards then you have to postpone the assassination."

"There's no need for that. Bodyguards are never that well trained."

Cesare holds up a finger. "One, bandages are expensive." That's a lie, they're made from rags. "Two, your blood stained my robe." Like he doesn't have a dozen others just like it. "Three, you knew when you begged for this job that what I say goes. And I say you don't fight more than four at a time."

The look Micheletto gives him is almost petulant. "I was able to kill five of them before I was wounded."

"Four."

"Five."

The slap is expected and Cesare feels no guilt about delivering it. A servant doesn't argue with his master without expecting something like that. "Four. I don't have time to find another assassin like you."

The chastisement seems to have worked. Micheletto seems more subdued. "There are none like me."

After you hit, you have to caress. Men who get too used to being hurt will resent you, whereas men who are hurt, then petted will love you for it. "Another reason I want you to stay alive," he says, correctly guessing that the assassin doesn't hear that very often.

Micheletto looks conflicted. "Four then, Your Eminence." He sounds like he doesn't want to agree, but can't think of another choice.

"Good." He wraps up the unused roll of bandages and stands to go to bed. He almost at the door when he hears Micheletto mutter under his breath.

"But it wasn't dangerous."

Author's notes- that last one was a little longer than a drabble. I'm not sorry. Not at all.

I'm glad ya'll are enjoying it. These drabbles can be really fun to write. Micheletto's my favorite character and I've been promising myself I won't let him dominate the drabbles. That went out the window with this chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thankful_

Cesare shouldn't support sex outside of marriage. He shouldn't support illegitimate children. He certainly shouldn't support his beloved little sister turning her husband into a cuckold. It's not his own personal feelings (or experiences), but the red robes across his back that dictate he must at least give lip service to Church-sanctioned morality.

Then Lucrezia confesses she is with child and his heart stops. That brute impregnated his sweet Sis. Hurt her, had sex with her, violated her. He sees red and for a second it all he can do not to hit the wall of the house.

"The father, thankfully, is not my husband."

Cesare thanks God even though he suddenly supports all the things Catholicism says he shouldn't.

_Drama_

"Some things should not be easy, Micheletto," Cesare said as he pulled the reigns and the horse trotted out of the courtyard.

Micheletto glanced at the sack of Lord Sforza that was stuffed between the cabbages and potatoes. "Seriously, I can slit his throat in two seconds. Then we can dump the body and skip home. Lady Borgia can even inherit his house and goods."

"Not the point. I don't want him dead. I want him to suffer. I want the populace of Italy to know him for the weak bastard he is. When I'm through with him he won't be able to go anywhere without the catcalls and mockery of the people ringing in his ears. No families will consider him for their daughters, no family friends or allies will call on him without making a joke at his expense. He will die alone and friendless and he will have no one to blame but himself."

"Oooooookay." Micheletto pulled his hood over his face and resolved to let the matter die. It wouldn't do to have the Cardinal turn this new-found thirst for revenge on him.

"Also, we need him around so the second season can have some drama."

_Math_

Giulia Farnese can't help but smirk at the old man's sputtering and gaping mouth. It's funny; he has no moral qualms cheating the poor out of money set aside to improve their lives, but suggest a woman check the books? Oh, Lord preserve us from hussies!

She wants to laugh at the hypocrisy. Instead, she is content with smirking and schooling him on the new fashion of double book-keeping.

One of these days men will learn not to underestimate her. In the meantime, she has math.

_Progeny_

The boy was beautiful. He had his mother's soft skin, but the few wisps of hair were the color of Paulo's own. His throat became one giant lump and for a few seconds he can't speak. "He is perfect."

Her hand brushed his cheek and trailed down his neck to his shoulder. "Like his father."

He caught that hand and kissed the fingers. "Like his mother."

She steps closer and he felt her breath on his chest and neck. She's tall enough to reach his throat and nibble at the place below his ear. Her touch felt so good he sucked in his breath. Squashed between his parents, the baby kicked and made a mewing noise.

It killed the mood, but only for a few moments. Paulo was the one who returned the child to his cradle and he took a few seconds to think how beautiful his son was.

_Trapped_

It's a terrible thing to be trapped inside your own mind. Juan felt like he was screaming at the top of his lungs, waiting for someone to hear him, to help him, to calm him down.

No one helps. They just judge. They don't understand that everything he does is for them. Lucrezia could never be with the boy and it was better if all traces of her infidelity were erased from the earth. His mother's husband could never enjoy her bed again, so why should he be welcome in her home? Nobody else worries about these things. Juan was alone in his fight against the world.

With nobody to share these feelings with, his anger turned inward. Drink dulled the feelings of abandonment, women eased the loneliness.

But when the women left his bed and the hangover faded he was still trapped in his own mind.

* * *

><p>Author's note: hey, ya'll see that little bluepurple button down there? You should click it. And when the little box pops up, you should say nice things about this story in it.


	6. Chapter 6

She had given up on ever finding love. Her work, her art, was worth spending her nights in a lonely bed. The drawings would keep her warm. The pencils would hold her tightly. The brushes would whisper bits of love into her ear and nuzzle her neck.

Then came Giulia Farnese.

Trailing behind the redhead came His Holiness.

Vittoria had heard what happened to men who slept with other men, but she had never heard of women who took other women as lovers. Then again, she had never heard of women who dressed as men. Yet there she was, in breeches. Anything was possible in Rome. Men could sleep with men. Women with women. Artists with both.

She wasn't fool enough to believe they loved her. But wiggling bodies were better comfort than art supplies.

* * *

><p>"Apple or peach?" Micheletto held out the basket of fruit. He'd stolen it. It was Augustino's fifteenth birthday.<p>

"Apple," Augustino said, because he knew that refusing the gift would hurt the redhead. Micheletto had a set of the world's most effective puppy eyes. "Your father's going to kill you, you know." Good Catholic families did not tolerate theft.

"Not if I kill him first."

Augustino thought it was a joke and laughed.

* * *

><p>It was hard to think of the man who sat his arse on the throne of St. Peter on his hands and knees scraping the cold earth, muddying his brocade vestments, digging a grave for his favorite son. But the evidence is right in front of Cesare's eyes and he can't ignore it. Juan's murder had driven their father to the edge of sanity.<p>

He wished he could apologize. He wished he could provide comfort. But he wasn't sorry, and the person Rodrigo wanted was lying in a shallow grave.

Somewhere in the back of Cesare's head is an irritating feeling that somehow Juan is somehow to blame for all of this.

* * *

><p>Author's notes: I'm so terrible. I leave you for months, then I come back with a short chapter. Terrible. Flog me with a wet noodle. Harder. Harder!<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

He has heard a million pleas, some for life and others for death. He smelled the blood and shit. He laughed at the whimpers and mentions of children, spouses, and other dependents. He listened to them spew whatever lies they thought he wanted to hear. He watched them shake and jerk against the restraints before the last remaining bits of strength fled their bodies and their souls followed soon after, leaving nothing but irreparably damaged shells.

He knew torture. Knew the sights, the smells, the sounds. But he did not know how it felt.

Until the French King and his blond general came. Then Alfonso learned a whole new side of torture.

* * *

><p>Glory was the reason. Not only Heavenly glory, not if he was being honest with himself. Imagine having your name written in the history books as the man who sent the False Pope back to hell. The man who ended the reign of the Spanish Bastard and his disgusting ilk. The house of Borgia would crumble without its patriarch and his sinful bastards would die in the street, just as they deserved. History would thank him.<p>

Earthly adoration couldn't compare to the welcome he would find in Heaven of course (such a thought would be blasphemy and he didn't blaspheme) but it would feel good. After a lifetime of taunts and neglect and abuse, the idea of being universally loved felt good. Cardinal Della Rovere had told him he would live forever in the hearts of men.

The good Cardinal had neglected to tell him how much dying would hurt.

* * *

><p>She held her son to her breast and thanked the good Lord above for his return. True, he was missing a few fingers, smelled like a beast come in from the wet, and clutched her tightly in a way she interpreted as a sign of his mistreatment at the hands of the Borgias, but he was back. For now that was enough.<p>

Soon, when his small hands reluctantly peeled away from her and she trusted him to the care of the family doctor and his old nurse for a bath, food, and bed, it wasn't enough. She didn't think anything would be enough to temper the hatred burning in the back of her throat. She would end the Borgias; send them to hell and make sure they went screaming in agony.

* * *

><p>Watching the man die hurt. He knew everyone who threw stones. He was related to some of them. He was friends with a very few.<p>

And if they knew about him, him and the scowling redhead whose name he whispered in the dark of the graveyard, those stones would turn on him.

Beside him, Violetta turned her head and threw up. She was a gentle woman, years of taunts and childhood cruelty had made her so. Watching a man suffer was not something she found sport in. That was enough to make him like her.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "Do you want to leave?"

She nodded. "Yes, to both." Lowering her voice so he could barely hear her over the screams and taunts she said, "I think it's awful."

He nodded back. "As do I."


End file.
